


Rock and Roll Fairytales

by Guede



Category: Aerosmith (Band), Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, Rock Music RPF, Steven Tyler (Musician), The Rolling Stones
Genre: Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27790459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: Wolves, guitarists, they’re not that far off.
Relationships: Joe Perry/Steven Tyler, Mick Jagger/Keith Richards
Kudos: 2





	1. The Boy Who Cried Wolf (Keith Richards/Mick Jagger)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2012.

Once upon a time there was a young boy who got a job watching over the sheep of a little town. He wasn’t very into shepherding, but he needed the money to pay for new blues records, various mental enhancers, and the rent, in that order. Shepherding didn’t seem too difficult, and it had the added bonus of giving him somewhere where he could play his records and sing along without any of the neighbors screaming at him to turn down that racket.

The first day went swimmingly. The sun was shining, the sheep stayed put, and while he couldn’t sing as loud as he wanted, due to getting over a cold (downside of not paying the rent, having to sleep out in the cold for a few nights), he found a nice hillock where he could sprawl out and listen to his music and think about the day when he too was going to cut a record. All in all, he thought he’d landed himself a plum gig.

The second day wasn’t so easy on him. His throat got better so he could really belt it out, like the singer he was born to be, and he was blissfully following along with one of Howlin’ Wolf’s latest cuts when he noticed that the record was skipping badly. It was brand new and he’d paid a lot of money for it, so it was more than a little upsetting. The shepherd boy got up, about to march into town and take it up with his supplier, when he saw the stampeding sheep.

On one hand, the sheep ran straight into town, so it wasn’t like he’d actually lost any. They’d just misplaced themselves for a spell. On the other, the townspeople were less than pleased with having to root out panicky sheep from their stores and homes, and when they asked him what had happened, he didn’t have to be told that they weren’t interested in his vocal stylings.

“A wolf,” he said firmly. “A big black wolf, with giant white choppers. It just came out of the woods and ran at them, and before I knew it they’d got going on me.”

Thankfully, they believed him. Even gave him some sympathy, what with how he’d had to fend for himself with just a stick against the wild beasts, and for a couple days afterward he was a bit too busy discussing such with several young ladies, with an eye towards reenactments and so forth, to sing. But eventually the interest died out and there he was again, sitting out on the grass with only the sheep to witness his struggles towards greatness.

Not being a fool, the shepherd boy didn’t reach for his Howlin’ Wolf cuts this time, beloved though they were. He figured maybe it was the raw sound of them that had gotten to the sheep, so instead he put on some slow country ballads.

They made it through half a song before the sheep spooked. He was keeping an eye out for it, so he did make an effort to put a stop to their nonsense, but there was only so much a man could do against a woolly battering ram. Once he saw that, he gave up on a lost cause and put his effort into hiding the records and appropriately marring his clothing before the townspeople came.

“The wolf again,” he said. “He got away before, you know, and I think he was coming back for another go. It was terrible, just terrible. Just look at me.”

The townspeople said they believed him, but more than a few of them were casting looks back over their shoulders, and when he went home that night, the shepherd boy heard what they were saying behind his back. Again, not being a fool—but not about to give up his dream for fucking _sheep_ who didn’t know a good thing when they heard it—the shepherd boy collected his day’s pay and then packed up his belongings. When he went out the next day, he took with him everything he owned.

Wasn’t much, and his savings weren’t much either, but they’d get him to the nearest city. Once there he didn’t rightly know what he’d do yet, but he figured it had to be better for him than here.

Still, the sheep had helped him on his way, so before he set out on the road, the shepherd boy thought he’d give them a send-off. He hefted his pack over his shoulder, then went to climb up the nearest stile so he’d have a proper perch.

It was probably the weight of the pack that threw him, but at any rate, the shepherd boy’s foot slipped on the rocks and he nearly fell off the stile. The only thing that saved him was somebody grabbed his wrist and hauled him back, and a fair way towards the other side of the stile as well. “Thanks,” he said, looking up.

A wolf looked back at him.

Actually, it was looking at the records he had tucked under his arm, and when the shepherd boy jerked back in shock, it was those records that the wolf reached for. “That’s the new Bo Diddley, ain’t it?” the wolf said. “Didn’t know anyone had it over here yet, though I heard it on the radio a few times.”

“I had to special order it,” the shepherd boy said after a moment. He hesitated another moment, then swung his legs down over the stile and held out the records for the wolf to see. “Pain and a half, but it was worth it.”

“Isn’t it?” the wolf said, his voice going reverent as he touched the covers. He was a bit on the scrawny side, at least as the shepherd boy had heard of wolves, with black hair that stayed scruffed when he ran his fingers through it. When he smiled he showed crooked teeth that weren’t white and weren’t great big choppers, but the overall effect was inexplicably charming. “Hey, you aren’t the one I heard singing blues the other day, are you?”

The shepherd boy thought for a moment. Then he handed the records to the wolf and got up on his feet on the stile.

A few minutes later they were watching the last of the sheep bound off over the field. “And there’s a real wolf this time, and they aren’t going to believe a word of it,” the shepherd boy sighed.

“Fuck, well, what’d they know?” The wolf smiled again. “I liked it.”

The shepherd boy smiled back, but stayed on the stile. “So aren’t you off after those sheep now?”

“Nah,” the wolf said. He went to hand back the records and something shifted on his back, and when he pushed it away, the shepherd saw the wolf had a guitar case on him. “Nah, chasing sheep’s for those who like running back and forth like idiots all day. I’d rather set up in a corner and listen to these.”

“Well, I’m just about to go off too,” said the shepherd boy. He got off the stile and took the records over his arm again, then looked at the road. Then at the wolf. “Looking for somewhere to set up and sing along.”

The wolf smiled a third time, looking at the shepherd boy’s face. He reached out and put his fingers on the edges of the records, and then slid them over and up the boy’s arm till suddenly his arm was slung over the boy’s neck. “All right, then,” the wolf said, leaning in close. “Let’s go have a listen.”

And when the townspeople came to see what had happened, they saw that it really had been a wolf this time. But by then both he and the shepherd boy were happily elsewhere.


	2. Little Red Riding Hood (Steven Tyler/Joe Perry)

One day Little Red Riding Hood got up early (or was kicked out by his apartment mates for stealing all the breakfast, depending on who you ask), excited and happy (or cursing and pissed off, _but_ with a full stomach) because the label had just given him a brand-new, extra-swishy red cape and hood, made out of expensive imported silk. In gratitude, he decided he was going to deliver his new album early. So he put on his new cape, did his eyeliner, and popped the album into a basket that he tucked under his arm. Then he set out on the path through the forest to the label.

Deep in the forest, a wolf stirred. Then he rolled over and nosed his way back to sleep, only to have pinecones tossed at his head. The wolf woke up and threatened to kill the pinecone-thrower, who just sighed and pointed at the vast collection of pinecones he had assembled (it was nice to have fans who’d send you anything you wanted, no questions asked).

“What the hell do you want?” the wolf finally asked. The wolf wasn’t defeated. But he wasn’t stupid either and he knew overwhelming odds when he saw them.

“He’s coming in,” Tom said. When the wolf didn’t immediately react, other than a couple of slow blinks, Tom sighed again and hefted a particularly large, pointy pinecone. “Little Red…oh, you know who, because that’s a stupid name. Anyway, he’s on his way to the label, and if you want to catch him, you’d better be at the fork at ten sharp.”

The wolf grumbled and contemplated his nice, comfortable den, specially constructed to keep out all sights and sounds of the outside world (although proofing it against Tom never seemed to work). Then he sighed and crawled over to his clothes to contemplate his leather suits and jewelry. At the moment he just had a couple necklaces and rings and one bracelet on, but he was thinking if he had to drag his ass all the way to the fork in the path, he might as well make it an event.

“I think you should go with the fringe,” Tom said.

“Nobody asked you,” the wolf muttered, but he prodded at that pair of pants anyway. “Why, does he like fringe?”

Tom consulted the pinecones. “He likes dangly things.”

“Right, whatever.” The wolf pulled on his pants and a coat, threw on a couple more necklaces, and headed out to the fork in the path at the ungodly time of nine-fifteen in the morning.

He got there at nine-thirty, after a detour to check out some new guitar fruit that’d ripened since the last time he’d passed the instrument grove, and settled down to wait. Then he realized he had another half-hour and slipped off to the nearest stream to check whether he looked rumpled instead of tousled, and whether his eyeliner was crooked (he probably should’ve waited to do that out in the sunlight, but sun-dappled wolves weren’t as cool as cave-dwelling ones). After a few touch-ups, the wolf slipped back to the fork.

Tom came by at ten-thirty. “So…I’m guessing he didn’t stick to the timetable.”

“No shit,” said the wolf, angrily getting to his feet. “This is stupid. I’m not waiting here all day.”

“Well, of course not. You’re a wolf,” Tom said. He rubbed his chin with his hand in a slow, awkward way. “Clearly, he hasn’t come this way yet. So he must still be on this side of the fork.”

The wolf opened his mouth, then remembered that Tom was always like this, stoned or not, and just sighed instead. Eventually Tom would get to the point.

“And you’re a wolf, with tracking abilities, so you should be able to find exactly where he is,” Tom continued. “It’s not like there’s that much on this side, Joe. Won’t take you that long.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And oh, look, you don’t even have to track!” Tom said, a strange, gleeful light coming into his eyes. He pulled a pinecone out and held it as if it was speaking to him. “Word is, he’s right off the ‘shroom patch, between that and the fairy grotto.”

The wolf rolled his eyes. “But what if I don’t want to even do this shit now?”

Tom and the pinecone…had a moment, and then Tom pitched the pinecone at the wolf’s head. Then he stood back with his hand on his chin again. “You know, with all those curls I always figured you’d have extra padding, but—oh, fuck you, Joe. You’re going after him and we all know it. Don’t waste a good leather suit.”

“Go fuck yourself,” the wolf said, rubbing his head and slinking off in a huff.

The wolf meant to go back to his den, but after a couple feet he realized he had pinecone splinters in his hair. He sat down to work them out, and then thought it might be nice to go run some cold water over his sore skull, and well, the nearest good spot for that was the grotto. So he went there. Not because of Tom.

The grotto was unusually empty when the wolf arrived, without anyone fluttering around the front or throwing fairy dust from the top of the waterfall (which was actually a serious pain to get out of your clothes), but the wolf could hear noises coming from the back. He stopped where he was, blinking, and then he put back his head and heaved a deep sigh. “Great, now the water’s probably dirty,” he muttered.

“What’s dirty?” somebody said.

The wolf pulled his head down, then twitched hard enough to have to catch himself on a nearby shrub. “You’re not wearing anything under that!”

Little Red Riding Hood widened his eyes as if the thought had never occurred to him, then looked down at himself. Specifically, at his very unclothed lower half, with the exception of some glittery patches and the odd smudge of lipstick. He shrugged and flipped his hands in the slightly less new-looking cape that floated off his shoulders. “Well, if something’s good, makes no sense to cover it up. So who are you?”

“I’m the w—” the wolf gave himself a shake and tried to focus on the cape, which was red, but which also had what he thought was a silly-looking Japanese print on it “—the agent from the label. You’re late.”

“Oh.” Little Red Riding Hood looked at his wrist, frowned, and then began batting at his cape as if he were trying to find something. The folds of the cape slid up his legs and in a couple places over his belly. Then he dug out a watch—on a very nice gold chain, way heavier than anything the wolf had, the wolf noted with what was not envy—and consulted it, while his cape slowly drifted back down over his hips. “Oh, right. Oops. So you’re here for the album?”

The wolf pretended he’d been looking at Little Red Riding Hood’s face. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Little Red Riding Hood didn’t move. “You know, you’re really skinny for an agent.”

“I’m out of the office a lot,” the wolf said. “Don’t really eat regular meals.”

“Label keeps you hopping, huh,” Little Red Riding Hood said. Then he put out his right foot and struck a pose, as if he were carrying a huge load on his back. His cape flipped completely over his back so it hung down on only one side. “ _Working for the bossman_ ,” he sang, in a voice that made the wolf shiver. Then he dropped back, grinning. “You have really long hair, too.”

The wolf rolled his eyes, but not quite as annoyed as he’d usually be. The guy really had a great voice. “Well, it’s not like I’m going to the teenybopper gigs.”

“You’re also wearing a hell of a lot of leather,” Little Red Riding Hood said, right in the wolf’s face. How he’d gotten there under the wolf’s nose, the wolf didn’t know, especially since Little Red Riding Hood wasn’t that subtle with how he stuck his hand under the wolf’s coat. “Not wearing anything under that either. So I don’t see what’s wrong with my—”

“The cape’s stupid, that’s what’s wrong with it,” the wolf said, and then he pulled off the cape and pushed Little Red Riding Hood back into the grotto. “Also, the label is stupid, and your album is—you sound good but your guitarist sucks.”

Little Red Riding Hood’s eyes suddenly widened. “Hey, you’re a wolf!”

“Yeah, so what?” the wolf said. “You got a problem with that?”

Little Red—well, the cape was gone so the name didn’t make sense. Anyway, he didn’t have a problem with it. He didn’t actually say so, but his mouth managed to make that pretty clear without talking.

Tom wandered in about a quarter hour after the fact, when the wolf was starting to think they’d better move anyway because the cooing and giggling of the fairies was getting on his nerves. He looked down at them. “What happened to the red riding hood?” he asked.

Steven (as he’d introduced himself in between licking down the wolf’s chest and taking off the wolf’s pants) tilted his head out of the wolf’s hair just enough to see Tom. Then he pushed his face back into the wolf’s neck, mumbling irritably. He stopped when the wolf wrapped an arm around his waist. For a second he was just quiet, and then he started nuzzling the wolf’s jaw and making little suggestive noises to go with the way he was wiggling his ass against the wolf’s other hand. “Ditched it,” he said. “Red’s already out of fashion, anyway. I was thinking I’d go with a white one next. And who the fuck are you?”

“Tom,” said Tom. “Joe, did you remember to ask him?”

The wolf had to concentrate to focus his eyes on Tom. Steven was slowly grinding his hips up the wolf’s leg and that was…was…Tom needed to go away. “Ask him what?”

“Ask me what?” Steven said. He also stopped grinding on the wolf, and then laughed when the wolf snarled in annoyance.

“We’ve got a band,” Tom said, his hand over his eyes. “We need a singer. We think you’re really good, and we heard that you’re in between bands.”

“Your last one sucked anyway,” the wolf said.

Steven snorted, but he was looking more thoughtfully at the wolf now. “I knew you looked familiar. You guys played the Barn last week, right? You’re pretty good yourself, so yeah, maybe we should play together sometime.”

“You came?” the wolf said, blinking. Then he looked away, off to the side to check out some stalactites, because wolves did not blush even when they were happy.

“Yep,” Steven said. He smacked the wolf a kiss on the cheek, being a clown again, but then he settled his head on the wolf’s shoulder, not getting in the way of the stalactite-watching. When the wolf put a hand on his back, he did this kind of shimmy that was almost as good as the grinding, but then let out a long, contented sigh and just laid there. “Or, you know, we could jam sooner if I can find a place to stay. I got kicked out of my old one this morning and the label’s going to be too pissed off about missing out on the album to get me another place.”

Tom took his hand off his eyes, grimaced, and covered them again. “Joe has a very nice cave with lots of room.”

“Really?” Steven lifted his head and looked at the wolf, who had gotten fed up with the stalactites a good while ago.

“Well, yeah, I do,” the wolf said. He fiddled with something, realized it was part of Steven when Steven arched and hissed, and then had to shake his head to remember they were talking about something important. “So yeah, you can come over, see if you like it. It’s just a wolf den, you know?”

Steven grinned and the wolf found himself grinning back before he could think about it. “Fantastic,” Steven said, right before re-installing himself in the wolf’s mouth.

“Okay, Joe, I think we got it figured out,” Tom said, his voice cracking as the wolf and Steven rolled up over his feet. He scooted back. “Joe. Joe? Um, look, do we…do you…really need to do this again? I think he got the point.”

“Fuck o—,” the wolf said, because Steven had better ideas about what to do with their mouths than using them to respond to Tom, and upon further consideration, the wolf was willing to explore them. And so they lived happily ever after.


	3. The Three Little Bands (Joan Jett)

A long, long time ago in a land far, far away, a wolf was looking for a place to jam. She had her guitar and her leather jacket, and she figured it was time that she stopped playing by herself and hooked up with some other like-minded folks. She wasn’t that picky, didn’t much care who so long as they loved rock and roll, and so she figured it wouldn’t take that long.

The first place she tried was made of straw. Seemed a little weird, but the sign outside said they made music and so she figured she’d give it a shot. She went on in, chatted up the secretary and then got a demo slot with the management. They liked her sound, but they wanted to put her in a group. It was still rock and roll, so she went with it. 

The group started out rocky, but then took off so fast and furious that all of their heads were spinning. They blew up so much that it took a while for the wolf to notice that they’d even set the place on fire. Literally on fire, falling down around them, and she barely got out of there with her guitar intact.

Shaken up, the wolf took some time off to get the smoke out of her lungs and check for burns, and figure out if this was really what she wanted to be doing. The whole experience had been pretty eye-opening, but in the end she decided she was proud of it, even with how it’d ended, and she wanted to keep walking this road. So she got off her feet, dusted away the last of the ashes, and went on down to the next place.

This one was made of sticks, which made the wolf cock her head a few times, but ultimately she figured nothing ventured, nothing gained, and she went for it. This time she tried it out without a group, but it was always pretty shaky and it wasn’t long before she was brushing the twigs out of her hair. At least this time she’d been looking out for it and so she hadn’t gotten caught nearly as badly. She also didn’t have to spend any time making up her mind what to do next, so as soon as she’d finished scratching out the splinters, she picked up her guitar and headed on down the road.

She had to go a lot longer this time, but eventually she found herself a good spot. No actual building, but it had space to grow and lots of interested rock and rollers nearby, and it was all hers. She set up immediately, and the first thing she did was post a wanted sign up by the road. It wasn’t long before she’d put together a band and a house to play in, and keeping in mind her past gigs, she made sure to build her place in solid brick, thick and strong so she could sing her heart out and not have to worry about the walls shaking and tumbling around her. And best of all, the place was all her, and all hers.

So maybe that wasn’t exactly how the story was supposed to go, but the wolf had had enough of other people’s stories. She had her own to tell and if there was one thing she’d learned, it was that nobody else was going to tell it. So she’d have to do it, and that was what she did.


End file.
